It had angered him; that unexpected attraction, that distracting and damning need that he could never give in to. In his anger, he’d lashed out with harsh and biting words, spoken to her in a tone that he had never used even with the laziest of his servants. And she’d fallen, her eyes had glazed over blankly and she’d simply slipped into unconsciousness. Guilt plagued him as he thought of the fact that he, with his rough treatment or his reckless riding over the moors on a stallion that was barely tame, might be responsible for it.
Whatever had occurred, it was more than simply a swoon. She was so cold her skin was practically blue and he couldn’t be certain that she hadn’t received some injury when Balthazar, his stallion, had been thrashing about. He had enough guilt to contend with already. Bringing an innocent young woman to Darkwood Hall, with its tragic history and hidden secrets, to live out her life in a lonely farce of a marriage were both sin enough already. To do her injury on top of that was simply too much.
Dismounting, Griffin immediately took her into his arms again. He felt strangely possessive and protective, whether it was out of a sense of responsibility for whatever injury she might have sustained or whether it was some instinctive thing prompted by the knowledge that she was his, he could not say. Regardless, he was reluctant to entrust her care to anyone else. Given the nature of his household, he had little enough confidence in the ability and the willingness of his servants to offer genuine aid.
“Have hot water and some tea sent to Lady Darke’s chambers,” he instructed the butler who simply stood there with his mouth agape.
The man sputtered ineffectively for several seconds. “Lady Darke?”
Griffin paused, one booted foot on the bottom stair. “Yes. Lady Darke. I did inform you that I had sent Mr. Swindon to London to procure a bride in my stead and had instructed you to ready the connecting suite. You did follow my instructions, Simms, did you not?”
The butler looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit. “No, my lord. Mrs. Webster and the Viscountess, felt it would be an inefficient use of the servants’ time to ready a room when we had no notion of when it was to be occupied.”
The fury that filled him at that was spurred by his worry for the woman in his arms. “Then have the items sent to my chambers… and I will address this issue with both you and Mrs. Webster, and, in her turn, Lady Florence, once my new viscountess is situated. This is my house, Simms. I will not be disobeyed again!”
With that, Griffin climbed the stairs. As he neared the top, she stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She was obviously confused, uncertain of her surroundings.
“I have brought you to Darkwood Hall. You’ll be safe here,” he said softly.
“Safe from what?” she asked.
“Anything that would do you harm,” he lied. There were as many dangers within the walls of Darkwood as out, but for the moment, at least, he wanted to offer her a sense of security.
Griffin reached his chambers and a footman opened the door. Stepping inside, he placed her on the bed, ignoring any thoughts of how right it felt to do so. Theirs was not to be a real marriage. That had never been his intent. In fact, his instructions to Swindon had been to find him a bride who would never tempt him to consummate the marriage. It was a path that would lead only to ruin and he already had far too many sins to count against him.
“What is your name?” he asked her softly.
Her eyes opened again. Wide and so very dark that he could lose himself in them, they were framed by a fringe of thick black lashes. They were also achingly innocent, free of any shadows and so very unlike his own.
“Olympia Daventry.”
“Griffin,” he corrected. “Olympia Griffin.”
She blinked up at him then. “Yes. I haven’t quite grown accustomed to it yet.”
He shouldn’t let her. Annulment was the only sensible option. Living with a woman like her, day in and day out, faced with the temptation she afforded, would be hellish. Assuming, of course, that he had the will necessary to resist her. He did not.
“You will,” he said simply. “I’ll send a maid to assist you into dry clothing of some fashion until your luggage can be reclaimed, along with your erstwhile servants.”
“You’ll send someone to help them?” she asked.
His lips firmed and he looked down at her pale, wan face. There was no color in her cheeks and there were dark hollows beneath her eyes. But it was the shadows he saw within those dark orbs that entranced him. What suffering had his young bride endured that she’d have such a well of sadness inside her? He was treading in dangerous waters, with swift moving currents that threatened to pull him under. Women, and their ability to get into a man’s head, were a path to madness. That was a road he could ill afford to travel.
“They are undeserving of your concern, but yes. I will send someone to fetch them,” he reassured her.
“Thank you.”
A maid entered then, bearing a tray with tea. Footmen would follow shortly with heated water. “Rest, Olympia. Someone will be in to assist you shortly.”
Griffin left the room with a warning glare at the maid who cowed and bobbed her head. His servants were not truly his. They were loyal to his aunt by marriage, Lady Florence Griffin, the now-former Viscountess Darke. The daughter of a bankrupt earl, she was quite content to remain at Darkwood rather than return to the less than sheltering bosom of her family. She would not welcome Olympia. In truth she would not welcome any woman into the house, much less one who was younger and now outranked her.
And then he reflected, there was Mrs. Webster. There was naught to be done for it. The housekeeper could not be discharged for fear that she’d ruin them all. She was privy to secrets that could destroy the Griffin family, financially and socially. It was not beneath her to use that information either. As for Lady Florence, he would exile her to the dower house, if it weren’t in a shambles. But he’d pay dearly for it, and in the end, so would his bride.
In the hall, he found one of the women who had sparked his ire. With her steel gray hair swept back into a tight chignon and the black bombazine dress that she wore, she looked rather crow-like. “Mrs. Webster, why were my orders to have her ladyship’s chambers readied ignored?”
She lifted her chin, clearly unmoved by his displeasure. “’Twas wasteful, my lord, until we knew when her ladyship would be arriving.”
“And yet she has arrived to a very poor greeting indeed,” he chastened. “See to her chambers and see to it that lads from the stables take a cart to fetch her servants and bags. Their carriage is disabled on the road.”
“Yes, my lord,” the woman said, inclining her head, but there was no mistaking the sneer in her tone or the malice in her eyes.
Griffin started to walk away, but some part of him was so goaded by her obvious disrespect that he simply couldn’t refrain from engagement. “I understand that we are at an impasse, Mrs. Webster. You wield an authority in this house that I cannot violate due to fear of repercussion… but do not make my life, or the life of my bride, so uncomfortable that those repercussions become worth the risk. Is that understood?”
She glared at him coldly. “Perfectly, my lord. I will see to it that her ladyship enjoys all the hospitality that Darkwood Hall has to offer.”
It was a veiled threat and they both knew it, but he had few options at the moment. “What a sad welcome that will be,” he murmured and walked away.
As he rounded the corner, he saw the smirking face of his aunt. Every bloodless confrontation he endured with Mrs. Webster fueled her glee at his misery.
“You’ve never understood how to deal with her,” Florence said coolly. “Too brash, too bold, and too much of a bore… so very like your late uncle. I wonder if the similarities end there.”
Griffin ignored her goading. “The dower house is in poor condition, but don’t think I won’t send you there… and as far as my bride is concerned, steer clear of her, Florence. Or you’ll find out just how bold and brash I can be.”
&nbs
p; The woman was still laughing as he walked away.
***
Olympia watched the maid scurry about the all too masculine chamber. The girl appeared fearful, nervous, and utterly cowed. Was her husband such a harsh master, then?
“What is your name, girl?” she asked.
“Marjorie, m’lady,” the maid replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Marjorie, you’ve no need to be so fearful. I’m sure his lordship is quite pleased with your performance as a maid.”
The young woman gaped at her owlishly for a moment and then bobbed her head. “Yes, m’lady. Quite so. Would you wish me to pour the tea?”
Olympia normally would have poured for herself, but given how shaken she was and how horribly exhausted, it seemed imprudent. The lack of food, the illness prompted by the endless swaying and jerking of the carriage, followed by the cold and the shock of nearly being run down by that giant beast of a horse had taken a heavy toll on her. And lack of sleep, she admitted ruefully. There’d not been a night since leaving her aunt and uncle’s home that she hadn’t woken in a cold sweat, terrified that it was all some cruel dream she would wake from. All of that, coupled with the shock of coming face to face with her husband, was it any wonder she’d fainted dead away?
Thinking of her husband, Olympia flushed. He was a handsome man, though with his dark countenance and chiseled features, he was also an intimidating one. His manner was less than genteel as well. Abrupt, almost rude, certainly impatient—what sort of husband would he be? What sort of marriage could they possibly have starting off on such ill tidings?
“The tea, m’lady?” the maid repeated. “You want I should pour for you?”
Olympia looked down and realized that the cup in her hand was trembling so badly that the girl couldn’t possibly fill it without scalding them both. Placing the cup back on the tray, she forced herself back to the present and away from worries she could do nothing about. “Yes, Marjorie. Thank you.”
The girl filled the cup, adding a bit of honey to it, but her hands appeared no steadier than Olympia’s own. When the girl returned the teapot to the tray, Olympia lifted her cup and took a long swallow of the heated liquid. It soothed her throat and the warmth spread through her like a blessing. The plate of scones with cream and jam called to her like a siren. Not trusting herself to eat them with even a modicum of manners, she wanted to wait until the young maid left before she inhaled them.
“Lord Darke is not an unkind master, m’lady, no matter what anyone else says of him,” the girl whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “But this house is a bleak place. You’d have been better off to never come here, ma’am.”
Olympia wanted to press her for further explanation but the door opened and two footmen entered bearing pails of heated water. With them was a woman so fierce and cold in her appearance that it took all of Olympia’s will not to simply draw back from her. With her dark gray hair scraped into a tight bun and the uninterrupted severity of her black gown, it was enough to make a body shiver. But it was the air of menace and anger that surrounded her that truly left Olympia shaken.
“Your bath, my lady,” the woman said. “I am Mrs. Webster, the housekeeper here. I should advise you that Darkwood Hall is quite old and portions of the house are in ill repair. I would not go about alone if I were you.”
It sounded curiously as if she intended for Olympia to be restricted to her chambers. She would not, Olympia vowed silently, ever be in that position again. “And will a servant be available to escort me whenever necessary?”
The woman’s already thin lips pressed into a hard line. “The servants have work enough. Your husband or I, myself will guide you through the house.”
“I see,” Olympia replied. Her husband could not have departed her company any quicker had the hounds of hell been at his heels. And the idea of willingly spending a minute longer than necessary in the company of the unpleasant, wretched woman before her was off-putting to say the least and torturous at worse.
“You may go, Marjorie,” the woman said stiffly. “And in the future, you’ll hold your tongue. Lady Darke needs no assurances from you about the nature of her husband… time will reveal all.”
Marjorie, fearful and quite chastened from her scolding, left quickly after bobbing a trembling curtsy.
Olympia watched as the housekeeper retreated from the room with one last glower in her direction. Left alone with the water steaming in the tub and no maid to assist her out of her gown, Olympia rose and struggled through the process herself. Luckily, her traveling gown was intended to be removed without assistance. Still, as she limped toward the tub on her swollen and already bruising ankle, she wondered at what she’d gotten herself into. It appeared that she had gone from one untenable situation to another.
“Dear, heavens,” she said, sinking into the tub. “What have I done?”
Three
Olympia awoke with a start, her hand flying to her heart and a scream hovering behind her clenched teeth. It hadn’t been the familiar nightmare of her last nights in London that had woken her, but something else.
Sitting up in bed, she surveyed her surroundings with dismay as the reality of where she was sank in. Darkwood Hall. In her husband’s chamber. With her heart pounding and her blood racing in her veins, she struggled to calm her labored breathing. It was as if she’d run up and down the craggy hills and across the moors that surrounded her here at Darkwood.
Fear was an ugly emotion. And yet it was one she’d become painfully accustomed to over the last few months. But her uncle was not lurking outside her bedchamber door, she reminded herself. She had not dodged his drunken advances after dinner to narrowly escape ruin at his hands. So what had woken her?
Getting out of the bed, she winced as she put weight on her ankle. Testing it, she breathed a sigh of relief when it actually held her weight. Had she imagined the noise? Had it simply been a dream, after all?
No sooner had the thought occurred to her than she heard it again, that same terrifying sound that had pulled her from sleep. The low, animalistic wail echoed over the heavy stone walls and sent shivers down her spine. Was someone injured or ill?
Reaching for her wrapper, she donned it and moved toward the door. In the dark, disoriented as she was, she couldn’t be certain which door led to the hall. She tried the first one and drew up short. It was not the corridor, after all, but her husband’s dressing room. It was also occupied.
Olympia stared in dawning horror at the man before her. Her face flamed with embarrassment. He wore only breeches and his shirt, open at the neck, revealed a swath of dark skin and crisp black hair. Averting her gaze, she stammered out an apology. “Forgive me. I was unsure which door led to the corridor.”
“Why would you be going into the corridor?” he asked. Clearly he was not as perturbed by his state of undress as she was.
“I heard something,” she confessed breathlessly. She felt warm, her face flushed and her blood thick in her veins. It wasn’t entirely embarrassment that she felt at having caught him in such a state, but it would be foolhardy to lay a name to it. The man was too handsome by far, but his temperament left her uncertain. “It sounded like a scream or a cry for help.”
He moved closer to her. So close, in fact, that she could feel the heat emanating from his body and she could smell the scent of him. Leather and sandalwood and something that was just him. It made her nervous, but it also made her curious. Neither was a welcome emotion.
“It is only the wind,” he said softly.
She frowned at that too pat answer and glanced up at him, meeting his gaze directly. “I’ve never heard the wind make such a chilling sound,” she stated emphatically. “It sounds like a woman… screaming.”
He shook his head, and offered a smile that did not reach his eyes. “In the upper floors of the house, it whistles between cracks in the stone, old archers’ slits… It plays tricks on the mind if one permits it to do so.”
Lies. They were u
ttered with practiced ease, but a lack of conviction. Olympia scanned his face, taking in every nuance of his expression. He appeared the soul of sincerity. Uncertain of precisely how she knew that he wasn’t speaking the truth, she didn’t doubt her instinct on the matter. If she believed him to be lying, he undoubtedly was. Without hesitation, she was utterly certain of it. Challenging him further would not help her cause. Clearly, based on his tone earlier and the fact that he couldn’t have left her in his servants’ care quickly enough, he was less than pleased with his solicitor’s choice of a bride. Questioning his honor so directly would have her sent packing, back to London and the all too certain fate that awaited her in her aunt and uncle’s home. “Then I’ll learn to ignore it I suppose.”
“If you remain here,” he answered softly.
Her heartbeat quickened then for a very different reason. Had he already decided to send her away then? The terror that swarmed inside her at that pronouncement left her weak. She’d committed herself fully to making a life at Darkwood Hall. While it was primarily because she had no other option, a part of her had exalted at the idea of having her own home again, of making a life without a falsely pious, drunken and lecherous man stalking her every moment of the day and night.
Forcing herself to speak, to face that terrifying outcome, Olympia asked pointedly, “Where would I go, my lord? I realize we have not spoken about the arrangement handled by your solicitor, but I am your wife. Where else would I reside?” Recalling the ordeal of completing the proxy marriage, crossing the channel to France where the service could be performed legally, then traveling all the way to Yorkshire to meet a husband who was clearly perturbed at his solicitor’s choice—it was all too much, she thought. She’d done all of those things just to have some sense of security and it was simply not to be.
“I meant nothing by it,” he offered soothingly. “Only that perhaps we may go to London or into Liverpool at times and be far from Darkwood Hall.”
A Love So Dark (The Dark Regency Series Book 4) Page 2
